


something tender (like a bruise)

by greekdemigod



Category: Gentleman Jack (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:14:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27437923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greekdemigod/pseuds/greekdemigod
Summary: (aka "oh my god they were bridesmaids")On the auspicious beginning of the season of Mariana's wedding, Ann Walker finally meets her friend's elusive ex-girlfriend and maid of honor. Anne Lister is wildly different from everything and everyone she has ever known.Weekly updates on Saturday!
Relationships: Anne Lister (1791-1840)/Ann Walker (1803-1854)
Comments: 73
Kudos: 122





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i had this ready to go, whether to comfort or to celebrate. I'M SO STOKED IT'S THE LATTER.
> 
> with that out of the way. i intend to post a new chapter weekly, and i already have some ready to go so that it should stay fairly consistent. and as always, huge amounts of love to you who is reading this right now, i appreciate you so much.

Huddled inside her coat, a woolen scarf wrapped twice around her neck, Ann Walker feels pretty warm despite the chilly morning. Her hurried pace might have something to do with that. It’s not like her to be late to anything, let alone something as tremendously important as this, but between a tardy bus and some difficulty finding the particular address, she enters about five minutes after they were supposed to meet.

She has never been at this café, but instantly she likes it. The assortment of tables and chairs is mismatched, the art pieces framed on the wall are all vastly different genres, and picture books sit side to side with novels and biographies on the shelves that equally serve as dividers to section off the spaces. It should clash horrible, but somehow it works.

There’s a system in the chaos.

Ann has no trouble finding her friends, because they take up the big, round table in the middle. Mariana’s there already, of course, and Catherine and Harriet sit on either side of her. Mariana’s sisters share so many facial features that they’re hard not to recognize her. Two seats are vacant. One for her, one for—would it really be her?

They’ve all heard so many things of Mariana’s famed ex-girlfriend turned best friend, _the_ _other Anne_. The wild stories. The bad stories. The break-up. The several make-ups. But she has never been at any of the birthdays or gatherings or parties.

Ann has to admit that she is very, _very_ curious.

“There you are. We ordered you a vanilla latte.” Mariana leans over Harriet to hand the steaming cup to her. “No worries though, we’ll be waiting a while yet.” At that she casts a particularly stormy look towards the empty seat besides the downy armchair that Ann sinks into, glad to be able to sit. “I’ll wager it’ll be half an hour still.”

The women fall into an easy enough chat despite Mariana’s annoyance, chattering away about work, Mariana’s nieces and nephews, Catherine’s disastrous Tinder escapades.

It’s not quite half an hour on the dot, but close enough.

The first thing Ann notices is the hair. She’s always found women with undercuts really cool, but this woman takes it a step further. The rest of her hair is long, the roots brown but the rest of it dyed a very intense white, tied in a low ponytail. It swishes over the shoulder of her blue button-down that’s only half tucked into black jeans that are ripped at the knees.

She lands somewhere in the middle of the spectrum that starts at frat boy and ends in rock star, but she makes it look phenomenal.

Ann doesn’t even consider this might be the other Anne until she’s beelining straight for their table. She kisses Mariana rather brusquely on top of the head from behind, one hand coming to rest on the back of her chair, the other reaching up to take off her sunglasses.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, ladies.” Ann could not describe that voice as anything other than a _drawl_. There’s a slight hoarseness there, and a deliberate slowness. There’s an accent there, but it’s hard to pin down and barely noticeable. Anne wiggles her eyebrows. “Mary told me to be on my best behavior, so I had to go looking for my manners.”

‘Tall, dark, and handsome’ was coined to describe a woman like her.

She has been staring unabashedly yet is still caught off-guard when piercing brown eyes meet her gaze—and hold. For long seconds, Anne looks at her dead-on, and slowly her mouth twists into the most roguish smirk Ann has ever seen.

“So glad my maid of honor finally joins us,” Mariana deadpans, leaning her head back to knock it against the hand still perched on her chair. “Can you sit your ass down?”

“I don’t know, can I?” Anne counters, tapping her hands against the back of Mariana’s chair before slinking away. Her movements have a subtle grace to them. There is so much confidence there, though it isn’t as loud as in the rest of her expression. “Do you mind if I get coffee first?”

“Yes, terribly.”

Anne concedes with a nod towards the bride-to-be and a shrug of her shoulders, as if to say, _what can I do_? She drapes herself into the chair, slinging one arm across the back, exuding so much raw confidence that it’s overwhelming.

Ann, before she can think the course of action through, tilts her cup towards her neighbor. “Want to share mine?” She has no idea where it comes from, and she’s almost panicking at how _ridiculous_ she is, she doesn’t even know the woman, it’s—but then Anne’s smile softens, and she feels sure fingers clasp over her own.

“My, what a darling you are.”

She tips her head back as she takes one long swig of the drink. When she licks her lips, Ann has to look away, wondering why her face has gotten so red.

A rap of knuckles against her wrist and then Anne slides the cup back into her hand. Wherever her fingers have touched, Ann’s skin tingles. Her thumb gives a weird little jerk where her name is scrawled on the surface.

The conversation picks up around them, about parties, about expectations, about the happiest day of Mariana’s life. Ann is a sucker for romance, and she has been looking forward to this first meeting, but it has arrived, and she keeps zoning out. She catches only flashes—no strippers, yes dresses, basically.

Her leg is bouncing up and down, anxious energy needing release. She’s not even sure _what_ she’s fixating on, just knows that she _is_ —her mind keeps flashing to the way Anne smiled at her without the bravado, seemingly genuinely touched by the offer of her coffee.

She is violently pulled from her thoughts when a hand settles just above her knee. When she looks up, Anne squeezes lightly before releasing. The others are in the process of rummaging through their purses and getting phones out of pockets.

She decides to follow suit and pretend like she didn’t just miss everything that was discussed.

“I’m thinking we do the bridal party before the bachelorette party,” Catherine suggests, turning in such an angle that she’s really only looking at Mariana. “What do you think?”

A chance glance to the side of her has her looking at a journal that looks almost entirely black. At first, she thinks it’s spilled ink, but no, those are all words. Line upon line of text has been scrawled in the tiny date boxes.

How is one person _that_ busy?

“Sure, so maybe we could the bridal party on June—”

“I can’t do June.” Anne’s reply is instant, without even having to look through her plans. “And July and August aren’t great either.”

Catherine and Harriet seem as confused as Ann is feeling, but the Belcombe sisters obviously knew that already because they nod.

“End of August,” the youngest, Louisa, offers. “Would that work? That leaves September for the bachelorette, and then obviously the wedding in October.”

They go back and forth for a bit, Anne scratching out some things and muttering about rescheduling, and how Christopher is going to be an asshole about it, and Ann is just a little curious trying to get a good enough look at the pages to be able to read.

They manage to find two days, and then, lest Anne gets too filled-up for it, immediately prick a date for wedding dress shopping too.

Anne tucks her journal back into the inside pocket of the coat she pulls on. “Well, this was all very fun, but I’ve got a place to be. You don’t need me anymore, do you, Mary?”

Mariana, surprisingly, waves her hand and nods. “You get going.”

Ann sits with her sadness and her confusion, watching this effervescent and mysterious woman leave, wondering how any one person can be so effortlessly cool.

It doesn’t take long before she’s also making an excuse to get to leave, because having to drag her attention back to the topic at hand every time it wanders off is _exhausting_. At this Mariana looks a little less forgiving, but she’ll think of something to make it up to her.

As soon as she can think freely again, that is.

* * *

Her apartment is awfully quiet compared to the thundering in her head and the noise of the city. Ann carefully unwinds her scarf and hangs it up on a hook by the door together with her coat. Her shoes go neatly by the mat. Her phone is buzzing something awful in her back pocket, but she assumes that’s just the bridal party so she ignores it while she goes to make tea.

It's the coffee that is making her this jittery and antsy. Or the nerves about playing such a big role in Mariana’s wedding when she feels like the least favorite, least important friend.

She hums quietly to herself as she makes a pot of chai tea. With her head propped up on her arm, she closes her eyes against the heat steaming up from the kettle, allowing the scent to wash over her and wrap her into what very much feels like a warm hug.

Sipping her cup, she leans against the counter and finally deigns to check her messages.

There’s a new group chat made for the lot of them, and already she has missed a bunch of messages. _We just saw each other_ , she thinks, but then reigns in her judgement because these girls are just excited. _She_ ’s supposed to be excited with them.

But it’s the test beneath it, a single one, from a number she hasn’t added yet. She doesn’t understand why she just knows that it’s Anne, _feels_ it.

_hey, it was really nice to meet you today. hit me up if you ever want to share a coffee again._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you SO much for all the positive, sweet feedback i have gotten on chapter one. your comments really pulled me through an emotionally tough week.  
> hope you're ready for some more. <3

Life resumes in its ordinary way. Autumn remains cold but colorful, the mess of leaves that crunch beneath her feet every day a beautiful palette of earthy tones. She goes to work at the office, spends her lunch break with Mariana and Harriet, then goes home to cook for herself, reads, goes to sleep early, alone. She has never been this aware of how dull her routine is.

But it's all very usual. Very familiar.

Soon her mind returns to its normal as well, pondering banal questions like what to buy at the grocery store and whether she wants to take Alexander up on his offer to go out sometime.

Anne does not stay within her thoughts obsessively, but it never takes long before she pops up again either.

Ann will admit that she is a little enchanted by Mariana’s best friend. There was something so exciting about her. She’d been like the older kids she had wanted to play with when she was just a kid, though Anne had been much kinder to her than they ever had been.

She really wants to be her friend. How awesome would it be to have someone like Anne _choose_ you to be her friend? It’s nothing but a silly desperation, she knows this, she beats herself up over this a few times. Whenever she vows not to spend more time thinking about it, something will remind her of the woman. But it’s _nothing_.

Weeks pass before Anne texts her again, this time to jokingly complain about how annoying the rest of the group is, and that feels enough like being let in that it sends a rush of adrenaline to Ann’s head. It’s so intense that she can hear a thunderous roar in her ears, her blood pumping so fast it’s dizzying.

But Anne doesn’t talk much. Replies at weird hours of the day, then doesn’t check in for a week. As the maid of honor, she’s in charge of organizing a lot of the parties, but she seems content to hand that responsibility over to Mariana’s sisters—save for the occasional veto or, at least that’s what Ann thinks, deliberate annoyance.

Every time it makes her wonder what Anne is doing, why she is never around.

There are so many questions Ann has, but nothing to go on to start looking for the answers she wants— _craves_. Of course she has already sleuthed her way through Facebook. No dashing Anne’s on Mariana’s friends list—no Anne’s at all even. Not even any clues. It’s made it very hard to be a detective.

A month after their first meeting—and maybe like three private conversations, if they can be called that, and not that Ann’s counting or anything, but, _three—_ Anne finds her. She doesn’t notice at first because she barely uses Instagram. Usually swipes away the notifications too, which she almost does because she’s in the middle of a page containing next year’s most promising indie movie releases; there’s been a lot of pictures that she’s had to precariously position, and it’s required her to stay focused, but enough of the name catches her attention that she _has_ to drop everything.

A locked account with a small black-and-white profile picture of half a sharp jaw, locks of light hair falling in front of dark eyes. But the name— _annelsoftime_. It’s clever and it’s cool and it _has_ to be her.

Her throat is suddenly dry and when she tries to swallow; a cough comes up instead. She ducks lower in her seat to hide her face behind her screen, hoping no one is looking at her—and then wondering why that even matters, why she’s acting like a basket case over Anne following her like it’s a big deal.

Except it’s a big deal. She doesn’t know anything about Anne, and that clues her in on how private a person she must be, so this—well. Her minor freak-out feels entirely warranted.

She has taken plenty of time now where sending a follow back request isn’t instant, though she keeps refreshing and refreshing, thumb dragging down her phone, eyes skating past the chips in her nail polish to look, any minute now, just a moment— _Anne_.

Her feed is mostly black-and-white photos with the occasional snap in full, vibrant color. Places around the world. Lots of objects, empty spaces, snaps of her long fingers barely in the frame. The neck of an electric guitar. The benches of an empty movie theater or a music hall. And a couple of really handsome selfies.

She’s swiping through so rapidly, she doesn’t even read the words on her first go through. This offers mere glimpses into Anne as a person, yet feels like _so much_. The paragraphs scribbled beneath will be too much.

It’s by sheer happenstance that she reads a comment on one, or maybe it’s fate, as they say. The username means nothing to her. But the _“Anne Lister, you edgy shit_ ” means everything.

Her puzzle piece.

Her first result when she types the name into Facebook doesn’t come up with an account to befriend, but a fan page of about ten thousand people. Her fingers itch as she taps through and through, follows links, scrolls past grainy photos, and there it is.

Anne Lister. Lead singer of a band called Hcdes.

“We’re heading out for lunch, wanna join?”

Ann just about shoots out of her chair, phone clattering loudly among her things—fortunately screen-side down. Her heart dives through her ribs to tumble somewhere between the shaky hands pressed to her desk. “Oh, I— I don’t know...”

Mariana raises her eyebrows at her. “What’s up with you?”

“N-nothing. Just, you—kinda scared me. I was—thinking.”

“Right. Sorry, little one. So?”

Ann grabs onto the edge of her chair to stop her hands from shaking. She really _did_ get quite the fright, but she doesn’t understand why she’s keeping it close to the heart like some kind of secret. Mariana would _know_ , wouldn’t she? “I’m going to stay in. Still lots to do.”

With her cheeks burning and her ears pricked for the sounds of her co-workers leaving, she pretends to continue working. Tapping her mouse, changing the fonts, moving pictures this way and that until she’s sure she is all alone.

She almost forgets her lunch box in her hurry to get the headphones from her purse and be gone.

The parking lot outside their building is blissfully empty. Concrete stretches around her, surprisingly inviting. She leans into the corner of the walls, pushes the buds into her ears, and navigates her way to a Spotify playlist. The cold creeps into her collar and laces around her fingers, but she does not care.

The heat of her discovery will keep her cozy.

Synth and electric guitar clash angrily. A steady drum beat guides them, energetic, unapologetic. Ann’s muscles tense, her breath hangs in her throat, waiting— _waiting_. The first sounds of Anne’s voice crooning into her ears jolts through her.

The lyrics are a blurry stream of Anne’s low, emotion-laden singing reaching through—reaching _into_ her, unleashing a flood gate of emotions that are equally jarring.

Ann realizes she has had her eyes closed for the entirety of the two and a half songs she has now listened to. When she opens them, Anne is looking back at her from the small cover photo sitting above the controls. Hair slicked back, wearing a white tank top that shows off arms that are more ink than bare skin, she is exactly as interesting as she remembers her.

What a find. Anne must be about the coolest person she has ever met.

She spends a good chunk of time listening to more, and she is so focused that she doesn’t notice the figure sneaking up on her until it stands next to her tugging at her headphones. No, no, surely she is dreaming, this _can’t_ be Anne standing next to her—except Ann could never hallucinate a smirk that cocky.

“Knew a pretty little journalist like yourself would figure it out fast.”

Ann flushes instantly, but latches onto the one part of this whole thing she can talk about without feeling stupid. “I’m not a journalist.” She chews her lip, eyes trailing down the length of Anne’s jeans because those are a lot easier to look at than the very real _rock star_ that is watching her. “I—I just do graphic design.”

“Ah, it seems you’re better at research than I am.” Anne’s finger comes to rest under her chin and angles her face upwards, so Ann has no choice but to return her look. “You’re not gonna get shy on me now, are you?”

“N-no.” _I already was_ , she wants to say, but swallows it. “Sorry.”

“I needed you to know so that when we’re out together, you know why I’m being trailed by a guy with a camera.”

Her thoughts are going, _trailed_ , but her mouth goes: “We’re going out?”

Anne clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth and winks. “Still owe you a coffee, don’t I? So, d’you think you could skive off work for a bit for me?”

Ann has never, _ever_ , in her life skived off anything. High school saw her with perfect attendance. She has only taken off sick once over her five-year career. But she finds herself nodding, unable to pass up on this opportunity. Pure adrenaline is coursing through her, and it’s addictive, makes her hazy. “Sure!”

“Awesome.” Anne hooks their arms together, then uses the position to pull Ann in closer. Her mouth ghosts against her ear, the impression of soft lips and a crooked grin nevertheless intensely tangible. “You gotta tell me which song you like best one day.”

Unbidden, heat rolls through her body, collecting mostly in her throat and cheeks. Ann nods meekly, unable to form any sort of response—or even a thought wondering why that is. There’s just the imprint of Anne’s mouth burnt into her.

“I’ll just g-go get my stuff then,” she stammers, both relieved and a little disappointed to be able to put some distance between the two of them, as if Anne is going to vanish as soon as she turns around. “I won’t be long.”

She rushes back up to the open office where they’ve got their desk isles. Luckily for her, most of her colleagues are still on their lunch break— _Mariana_ is still gone—so she only has to ignore one of the tech guys while scribbling out a note about ‘not feeling well, working from home for the rest of the day’ to leave on her keyboard.

It feels reckless and wild to skip out on half a day of work like this. Ann can’t quite remember the last time she did anything nearly as daring as this.

Anne is grinning at her when she descends from the stairs, lounging in the entrance hall of the building as if she belongs there. As if she’s been here before—Ann feels silly realizing she probably has.

“Good to go?”

“Yes! I’m all yours.”

“Now _that_ ’s what I love to hear, Ann Walker.”


	3. Chapter 3

The city is very crowded for the time of day. Anne feels sufficiently hidden with her most trademark features covered up, but her eyes are nevertheless flicking back and forth, gauging for reaction. She absolutely loves running into fans, and she has grown accustomed to paparazzi—she just does not want Ann to be scared off.

The blonde by her side is very much like a little bird outside of its cage for the first time. Every time Anne so much as looks at her, she seems to fluster and retreat further into her own mind.

It’s refreshing to be around someone not trying to be something they’re not.

They watch the busy city center dwindle into artsy, historic downtown, and though the crowd remains, it goes from a busy crunch to a meandering rhythm. Gone are the suits and the heels and the curbside phone calls. This neighborhood makes Anne remember her half a year’s worth of university life very fondly.

“I was wondering—” Ann instantly perks up, gaze drawn forcefully away from the pavement tiles she was studying. “This was all very spontaneous, in a way.” Her hand waves through the air. “I had, of course, every intention to come steal you away. But might it be better for you if, in the future, I ask you beforehand? Set a date, as it were?”

Not a smidge of Ann’s face has the capacity for lies—her whole expression lights up, touching to her smile, her eyes. She is radiant, beaming over at her. “That would be—very nice. I would love hanging out with you more. If that’s… what you want, I mean.”

“You’ll find, Ann Walker, there are few things I want more.”

Their steady pace has brought them to their destination already, so Anne lets that promising conversation hang between them as she holds open the door to the coffee shop. It instantly brings memories back of when she was a student dreaming of the future she’s now living.

Burgundy bricks, iron staircases, and an upper platform belie its previous life as a warehouse or something similar, it is now a quiet space where mostly students and young professionals can spend some time working.

“I wrote pretty much all our earliest songs here,” Anne confesses as she leads Ann to a corner table. A faint track of music is laced behind the hum of activity: tapping on keyboards, the whir of coffee machines, the grinding of fresh beans. She inhales deeply and sits down with a smile that formed all of its own accord. “You look nice today.”

Ann’s nose scrunches up in the most adorable way as she takes in herself with a look that says, _me? Nice?_

She’s used to models in fancy dresses, record label people in leather skirts and skin-tight blouses. She has seen women in all sorts of get-ups that scream _fake_.

In comparison, Ann is radiantly real. Nice is an understatement.

“What’s your coffee order?”

* * *

Ann folds her hands in her lap as she watches Anne saunter away to go get them their drinks. Every time she looks at the other woman, a breathlessness steals up on her. She can’t quite fathom _why_ someone like Anne would want to spend time with her—the self-deprecating thought obtrusively bounces through her mind every few seconds, though she finds she is quite unable to think when Anne is talking.

Gnawing on her bottom lip, she continues to watch, wondering what Anne is talking to the barista for so long, what they’re talking about. Maybe—because Anne’s gay—or at least bi? But she _looks_ very gay. Would she be trying to flirt, or—?

But the train of thoughts runs aground when Anne returns to her, eyes caught, and Ann’s mind simmers to nothingness under that gaze.

“You look like you have many questions. Shoot.”

“What? I-I—no, that’s—”

Anne drapes herself across the bench opposite her, pulls her legs up under her and really nests into the corner. The hoodie she’s wearing is a couple of sizes too big for her, so that it really swaddles her. It would look juvenile on anyone else, but Anne just looks comfortable while not giving a shit. She nudges a cup across the table towards her with a cheeky smile that says she is _aware_ of her vibe too. “You don’t need to be shy around me, pretty girl.”

Why is everything that Anne says so _much_? Ann can feel the pounding of her blood in her whole face, coloring her pale skin a deep red.

It takes her a minute and a couple of deep breaths—as subtly as she can—before she feels ready to think of questions. She has so many, it’s not a question of _if_ she wants to, it’s which one. For some reason, it feels like she’s being tested—as if whatever she comes out with first is going to decide something for them.

She takes a sip from her drink to steady her hands, they’ve started trembling a little from pressure or nerves or something, unexplainable, and the unexpected kick of a spice she didn’t ask for in her familiar vanilla latte pulls her out of herself for a split second. The cinnamon fills her mouth, her throat.

Almost does she ask why Anne decided to add that to her order, but that would be the blandest of questions to start the afternoon with, even for her.

So she asks, “Why did Mariana never tell us you’re a musician?” Because she _has_ been wondering that, for weeks now.

Instantly she can see she’s hit on something that maybe isn’t appropriate for a budding friendship, but as fast as the dark of Anne’s eyes turn stormy, they uncloud again.

“You’d have to ask her, really,” she begins, tilting her cup towards Ann in a weird sort of salute. “But I’ll give you my best guess, which is better than most. I think she doesn’t want her friends to stray from her side of the story.”

“What story?”

A humorless laugh, a wry grin, the click of a tongue against the roof of a mouth. “Our love story, as it were. Or whatever remains of it.”

Ann thought she’d heard all there was to it, because Mariana had certainly been generous with the details, but now she must wonder... “You’ve put it in songs.”

Anne nods, wrenching out the tiniest of half-smiles her way. “I’ve put it in songs.”

“And they’re… negative about her?”

“Hm, I wouldn’t say that. Not necessarily.”

Cryptic, but she’s sure she’ll understand when she has listened to more songs. The knowledge that she will have to re-examine the things Mariana has told them sits heavy in her stomach, and she has lost all her interest in the topic.

They sit in quiet for a while, Ann self-contained, knees together, shoulders slightly bowed, Anne spread as wide and long as she can manage. She is quite lanky, so she takes up a lot of the bench with her long legs and arms. The angle of her body is a little weird, but the other woman sucks iced coffee through her straw like it doesn’t faze her.

Customers trickle in and out. There’s a girl two tables away scrolling through a page full of memes, soundlessly snorting to herself. Ann picks at a loose thread at the cuff of her blouse, trying very hard not to just bubble into the silence to fill it, trying very hard not to feel like this means she has ruined things.

“Can I ask _you_ a question, Ann?” She barely waits for the nod affirmative, waltzes on, “When’s the last time you had so much fun you couldn’t stop smiling for _hours_?”

Ann has to think about that. And think about that. And think about that to the point where she must concede that it has been long enough that she doesn’t remember, though she doesn’t say that, she says, “A while ago, I guess,” which amounts to the same thing, probably.

“That simply won’t do. Can I take you somewhere Saturday?”

Emotion overtakes her, though she’s not sure which one. It’s too much to unpack right here, right now. Ann just looks over at this strange, wonderful woman that already feels like a friend even though they’ve barely spent time together, that makes her feel giddy, and she can’t do anything but accept, can she? “You can.”

* * *

It's not like they suddenly become inseparable, because Anne is very busy and bad at texting back and still on a weird sleeping schedule from living in LA most of the time, but there are calls. There are late night conversations typed out without capitals and punctuation, run-on sentences, all of Anne unpolished and Ann attempting to be on that same level.

The days pass like sand in an hourglass: lazily, but glittering in the sun that’s the intensity of them.

Ann can’t think about anything else. She’s never had a friend like Anne before.

Saturday shows up cold and naked, the sky laced with only a few dollops of cloud, the wind lashing so hard that it strips people of all pretense. Ann squeezes her eyes to slits against it so she can pick her way over to Anne and the car she’s leaning against.

“You drive?”

“Nah,” Anne chuckles, patting the roof of the car. “I pay people to do it for me.”

It takes a moment for Ann to realize that means _cab_ , not _hired driver_ , although the singer could be loaded enough to afford it for all she knows. Her research has been on hold since getting to spend time with the actual person.

“And before you ask, no, I’m not telling you where we’re going.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Ann is quick to reply, eyebrows knit because she really _wasn’t_ , “I trust you.”

There is no witty retort to that.

She doesn’t notice they’ve arrived at first, because of how unassuming the building is. It sits neatly under the railway arches, parts of the surrounding brick overgrown with moss, part of the pavement cracked, this is a part of the city she doesn’t usually venture into.

Then she sees the sci-fi-esque badge that spells _Laser Quest_.

“We’re playing laser tag?”

“Ding ding, get a price for the pretty girl.” Anne ostentatiously hooks their arms together and guides them into the dimly-lit interior. Bright lights strobe through the windows overlooking the maze below occasionally, and the _pew-pew-pew_ sound of laser guns carries through too.

Ann is left to look around to her heart’s content while Anne gets them signed up, and she only stops watching the people below play when her friend slides into her line of sight with helmets and vests in hand.

“C’mere, you.” Anne cradles her face in one hand to keep her still, the other slides the helmet home, snug over her ears. Nimble fingers quickly, easily fasten the latch underneath her throat, knuckles dragging against soft skin. A thumb trails up to tuck some stray curls beneath the strap. “These are for headshots,” she explains, tapping a sensor at the front of the helmet. “But also because it can get rowdy in there.”

They get into their vests, Anne slams the helmet on top of her own head a lot less gently, and they line up in the hallway that has information screens on either side, listing rules, guidelines, and advice. Ann reads all of them so studiously she startles when the attendant jams a gun into her hands.

“You think you got it, pretty girl?” Anne puts a hand on her shoulder, leans some weight down on her in a surprising but not unpleasant amount of pressure, bodies touching as she gets close enough to whisper in her ear, “Because I’m coming to get you.”

They are released into the arena.

* * *

The arena spits them back out flushed, sweaty, giggling twenty minutes later. Anne smirks as she waves the print-out of their round’s scoreboard in Ann’s direction. She’s placed up quite high while Ann—well, let’s just say that aiming is not one of her skills, and ducking or dodging isn’t either.

“It’s not fair,” Ann murmurs, shoving into Anne’s side with a bit of a grin of her own. “You were targeting only me.”

“Sure. All’s fair in love and war.”

They trade their equipment back in for their coats and belongings and the cold outside world. Anne rolls her eyes as soon as she glances at the screen of her phone—it is _littered_ with notifications, but Ann can see her swipe most of them away.

“The bridal party of doom wants to do brunch tomorrow.” Platinum strands of hair fall loose around her shoulders when she roughly tugs the band out and starts combing her hand through. “Not how I wanted to spend my last day in England.”

 _Last day_? Ann fights the swell of sadness that arises, but it helps build it to a crest instead. She really doesn’t want her to go yet. Whatever they have has been growing so naturally and beautifully all week, only for it to be dashed now.

She realizes she doesn’t want to spend tomorrow in the others’ company either. “Tell them you have plans.”

Dark eyes meet hers, lights of mischief dancing in them as much as in the lines of her smile. “Oh yeah? Is little miss goody-two-shoes lying, or is she staking a claim?”

Ann meets the tilt of Anne’s eyebrow with one of her own. It comes from somewhere deep down, a small streak of cockiness that has been buried beneath expectations and life and propriety. “Which one do you want it to be?”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if i haven't gone to bed yet, does that still make it saturday? :')  
> anyways, blame safd & among us for the delay on posting this. i hope you enjoy!

The hotel is not as fancy as she expected it to be, but then, Ann has never really been into musicians and bands before. She hasn’t the slightest idea what their life actually looks like. She just expected what they’re always putting in their magazine—throngs of people waiting outside the lobby, screaming fangirls, unceasing flashes of cameras. Glitter, glamour, chaos. But she doesn’t know just how famous Anne is either.

Does she have fangirls? Groupies?

There’s all these tidbits of information on the other’s life floating around her mind, but there is an enormous void of all the things she _doesn’t_ know—and that she so eagerly wants to fill.

Ann rides the elevator up to the fifth floor, all the while fussing with the unruly blonde curls that are draped over her scarf and shoulders, bunched up into her face. Even though it has only been a few hours since she last saw Anne, saying goodbye outside Laser Quest, she suddenly feels self-conscious again.

Mostly about the outfit change. She spent the whole ten minutes bus ride wondering why it felt like the most important thing to get into something a little more presentable, and she spends the minute in the elevator in much the same way.

There is no going back now though.

She knocks at the room number that Anne has texted her and waits. There’s a weird thud on the other side of the door, some shuffling, some stumbling, and then the door swinging open to reveal a lazily smiling, messy-haired Anne.

Something in her face is too open, too unguarded, but Ann can’t say why that is, except that _it is_. It’s a little unsettling, but only in that she didn’t realize before that Anne is a lot of things—dashing, confident, magnetic—but she’s also a soft kind of beautiful.

“There you are, pretty girl. C’min.”

Ann does as she’s told, stepping inside the hotel room that’s objectively rather big but feels small because of how cluttered it is. Clothes strewn about, a guitar in the corner, notepad and laptop on the bed, a suitcase propped open on top of a side table—all of it conspires to make the room feel lived in rather than visited, shrinking the size down to cozy rather than overwhelming.

She unbuttons her coat and puts it over the back of an unused chair together with her hat and scarf. Nervously she smooths down the front of her dress, peers down at the yellow vans that she thought might be cute earlier but now she feels so childish, so—“You’re going places, Ann.” Anne stands right in front of her, tilting her head up with two fingers beneath her chin. “Don’t go places without me.”

Held almost tenderly in the warm palm of Anne’s hand, her mind can’t go any places but where their skin is tethered. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Anne echoes, presses her thumb against the dip between her chin and mouth, trailing the edge of her bottom lip, and Ann holds her breath lest she disturb the motion. “Wanna order room service? I’m _starving_.”

“Sure!”

Anne sweeps some things aside to make space on her bed and instantly gets comfortable again, stretched out across it diagonally. Only now does Ann get a proper look at what the other is wearing—is that a _crop top_? She’d never have pegged the androgynous woman for owning those, but Anne keeps proving her that stereotypes are good for nothing because she will break all of them.

She joins her friend on the bed, though she stays seated at the edge, one leg pulled up so she can sit turned to look at Anne. Look at the ink that trails up along her spine and curls around her side, to disappear underneath her. Arms littered with small pieces, most in black and white but some with splashes of color.

“M'kay, so, they got this app where you can order,” Anne mumbles, head propped up on her arm as she scrolls through a list of delicious-looking pictures. “What would you like?”

“Oh, uhm, I don’t know.”

Anne doesn’t even look, just starts patting behind her until she feels part of Ann’s body—her elbow—and tugs her down with her. “Come here.”

They lie close, shoulder to shoulder, looking at the screen and occasionally tapping things. Sometimes they reach at the same time and their fingers bump. Tangle. Ann can’t remember when last things made her giggle like this.

“That looks about right. Okay,” she flings her phone into her heap of pillows and turns onto her side so that she can look at her better. Moves a hand into blonde curls to brush them from falling into Ann’s face. “You wanted to stake your claim so now you have me.”

Ann flushes, brain skirting over the implications of that statement as she takes in the gentle details of Anne up close. “I claimed you tomorrow, didn’t I?”

“Fair enough,” Anne concedes with a gesture, grinning up at her.

Like no time has passed, they fall back into easy conversation. The knots of tension in Ann’s back slowly melt, loosening up her entire posture, so that before long she isn’t even anxious at all anymore, engrossed in the moment that is spun from Anne’s laidback energy, lounging next to her.

Not for the first time is she struck by how enigmatic Anne Lister is when she talks—the fierce intelligence glittering in dark eyes, the tease of a half-smile, the sheer uncaring that radiates off the way she has arranged her body. Ann wishes she could be like that, but even more so, she is glad that she can bask in it.

That, and the thrill that zaps along her spine like electricity every time it dawns on her that Anne is choosing her. This is friendship in a way she has never experienced, with an intensity that steals her breath.

She wants to spend every minute with Anne.

The knock at the door seems to jar both of them out of the moment. Anne slides off the bed and goes to retrieve their food, while Ann barely manages to stop the racing of her heart and get to sit upright in the time it takes the other to get back to her.

“The poor bell boy probably thinks I have six people up here.” The cart is laden with their side orders and desserts, all of it looking scrumptious, and Ann goes a little queasy just looking at _how much_ it is. “But it’s just me having the munchies.”

 _Oh_. Oh, that makes so much sense. Ann feels silly not to have realized it immediately, but she has never… well, she’s never been cool enough, or even remotely close, to be around people doing drugs.

Now that she knows that’s what it is, it’s so easy to notice the slight redness to her eyes, the way she doesn’t seem to quite focus.

“You’re studying me.” The grin, lazy, not as cocky. Anne reaches out for her face, trails her fingers along Ann’s jaw. “Like, really _hard_. Why?”

“I didn’t realize you were high.”

“Oh shoot, you’re right. I totally should have offered.”

Ann watches her friend vault off the bed, somehow still so steady on her feet as she darts across the room and goes rummaging through one of her bags. She returns with a couple of paper-wrapped brownies and a small metal tin with as vibrant yellow a color as her shoes.

She could say no. She knows Anne wouldn’t judge her for it—but she finds she is curious. A little giddy to be wild and reckless for once. With the back of her neck glowing red, she extends a hand for one of the brownies, meticulously unwraps it, and breaks off a corner to put it into her mouth.

Anne has busied herself with piling three entirely different foods onto her plate, luckily, so she doesn’t have to witness Ann turning the wrapper over to read the text. She chews slowly according to instruction, wondering if it will hit instantly, if she will be able to act normal under its influence.

“You need to try these.”

A chocolate-covered strawberry appears into her line of sight, the tip of it dragged insistently against her mouth, and she can’t help but smile as she complies.

“So good, right?”

The burst of flavor on her tongue is so good, indeed, but Ann is almost too distracted by the presence of Anne’s fingers by her jaw, the way they’re running back and forth against her skin. Anne is always touchy, she realizes, but never _this_ much.

“Y-yeah,” Ann stutters, head ablaze by now, she’s pretty sure. There’s heat everywhere, pounding right beneath her skin.

Anne leans closer, smirking as she inspects Ann closely. “Oh, you’re so red right now.”

Ann stuffs the rest of the brownie into her mouth to have something to do, and her mortification only lasts a little while longer.

* * *

“You can feel if you want.” Anne tugs at Ann’s hand, bringing it down between their legs to the plush carpet underneath them. Each fuzzy strand brushing against her palm is a tiny burst of pleasant sensation, a tingle that gathers in her wrist. She watches as Ann feels too, fingers dragging through, and revels in how adorably her nose scrunches up.

She is riding the most comfortable of highs, a gentle fuzz at the edge of her senses, a calm imposed on her mind that gives her so much peace.

It’s not enough to stop her from thinking about how pretty Ann looks like this, with her limbs sprawled instead of so tightly contained, so opposite to a sober Ann that tries to take up as little space as possible. The sparkle in those blue eyes, the rosy cheeks, the absolute mess of her hair because she has been running her hand through it so much. Her mouth slightly agape, her focus utterly on the plates they have put on the floor between them.

Anne licks her lips, unable to stop her mind from straying even further.

Watching Ann nibble on a rolled-up pancake is doing things to her.

“I need some fresh air.”

Anne climbs to her feet unsteadily and picks her way around Ann, now gaping up at her while blinking slowly, as if she doesn’t fully comprehend. “There’s a balcony.” That seems to bring clarity; her slight frown melts into a smile as she pushes herself up from the floor to join her.

The wind feels nice in her face. It was still light out when Ann first came around, but it’s dark now. Anne has been enjoying being back in England because the light pollution is less enough that some stars come out. They do not manage to snag her attention tonight.

With her elbow on the railing she leans into the corner of the balcony, content to let the night air stream over and around her, tangle through her hair, while she watches Ann. The other woman is resplendent in this hazy glory, a beacon of sunlight in the dark.

“I’ve never done this before,” Ann murmurs, rubbing her hands over her arms, squeezing herself and then giggling quietly beneath her breath. “Gotten high. But I wanted to impress you. I want you to like me so bad.”

Anne softens, smiling, and pulls Ann closer toward her, to run her fingers up and down the back of her hand. “You don’t need to try, I already do.”

Uncertainty shimmers in those baby blues as they look up at her, her bottom lip jutting out in the tiniest of pouts that sends a delicious sizzle of attraction through Anne. “You do?”

“Yeah,” she replies, though it’s more a sigh than a word, a rushed breath. “You are unlike anyone I’ve ever met.”

Ducking, letting her hair fall in front of her face, Ann disappears. Anne has discovered she does that a lot—minimize herself, try to shake off attention, like she isn’t worthy of being perceived. Hands so used to reaching for the stars wade through those golden waves to find cheeks, burning with heat against her palms, thumbs moving to reveal Ann once more. “How are you still this shy around me, pretty girl?”

She shivers under her grasp. “I don’t know.”

Ann leans into the palm on her face, nudging her nose against Anne’s thumb, the demure quality of the gesture at war with the inferno raging within Anne. All she can do is inhale the remnant of Ann’s perfume a vague scent on the air, drink in the details of her face. Should she—God, she _wants_ to. She really, really wants to.

And that in itself is enough to shock her, because she hasn’t wanted anyone this viscerally, desperately, consumed by this instant headrush of an attraction and a budding crush since Mariana, since—and _fuck_ , all of it comes tumbling back into her head, the hurt, the open wounds, the wedding.

“You look sleepy. Should I put you to bed?”

Ann nods, allows herself to be guided back into the room. They stumble through the mess they’ve made to reach the spacious bed, sheets bunched up in a heap where they started out the night.

There is not even a flicker of doubt on Ann’s face when she climbs in and gets comfortable on one side, so Anne gets in with her and pulls the sheets up around them, trying not to think about what she would rather be doing to Ann than tuck her in.

The single arm draped over Ann’s waist is a testament to her fortitude.


End file.
